


i can hear ghosts calling

by ruiconteur



Series: hold my hand, help me stand [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Don't copy to another site, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Good Mordred (Merlin), Good Morgana (Merlin), Immortal Merlin (Merlin), Intensely Requited Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, featuring adults who actually do shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25200097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruiconteur/pseuds/ruiconteur
Summary: Fifty-two years after the last time Merlin stepped foot into Hogwarts, the ghosts of his past come calling.(Of all the things the future could have changed, Arthur never expected Merlin to be one of them.)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Merlin (Merlin), Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Gwaine/Percival (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin & Morgana & Arthur Pendragon, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Knights of the Round Table & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Harry Potter, Merlin & Minerva McGonagall, Merlin/Arthur Pendragon
Series: hold my hand, help me stand [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825582
Comments: 15
Kudos: 140





	i can hear ghosts calling

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to the beast that’s been rocketing around in my head ever since i got into merlin a few years back!! i have had _no_ peace since then jfc
> 
> as always, please expect extremely sporadic updates. i am but a suffering student and my teachers know no mercy
> 
> for my _waging war_ readers, i swear i haven’t abandoned the fic, i’m just struggling with the rewrite because i absolutely hate the direction it’s going in right now. the rewrite is being a complete bitch to get out, but it’ll be out one day!! gonna aim for latest end of next year because that’s when my grad exams are for school, so once that’s over i’ll have a lot of time to just write

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin probably deserves a prize for how many of Minerva’s bad ideas he’s gone along with.

Being over a thousand years old and supposedly possessed of infinite patience has done nothing to dull Merlin’s resentment of being woken up at ungodly hours.

He doesn’t let his annoyance show on his face, of course. Minerva is distressed enough as it is, and he owes her enough of a debt to play nice even at—he shoots a quick glance at the clock above the kitchen counter—three o’clock in the damned morning.

The thought of going back to bed and ignoring whatever catastrophe Minerva needs his help with is entirely too tempting.

But it's Minerva, and he owes her more favours than he knows what to do with, so he presses his lips together to hold back a sigh and redirects his gaze to the cat pacing in his kitchen.

“Minerva,” he says again, more insistent this time.

The cat stops. Sits back on her haunches and pins him with a glare that seems to blame this entire situation on him, like she wasn’t the one who woke him up by banging on his door so loudly he’d half thought he was back in Camelot. Merlin rolls his eyes at her and takes another large sip of his tea, leaning back against his table. “I can’t do anything to help if you won’t tell me what happened,” he points out, keeping his tone mild.

She still looks disgruntled, but concedes to shift back into human form and take a seat at the table, running her hands over the wrinkles in her robes. "How are you even lucid?” she demands. "It's the middle of the bloody night."

Merlin sets down his mug and raises a deliberate eyebrow at her, amused despite himself. “There are potions for that, _Professor_ McGonagall,” he says, and he’s tired enough that he lets a dry edge seep into his words, “some of which—”

“—which you invented,” Minerva cuts him off. Were she anyone else, she’d be rolling her eyes right now. Instead, she folds her hands in her lap and leans back slightly in her chair, regarding him with a cool dignity that hides a familiar exasperation. “Yes, I do recall that much.”

He doesn’t have enough of a death wish to do it outright, but Minerva knows him well enough to read the laughter in the way he presses his lips together in a too-quick motion. She narrows her eyes at him. “And?” she says, pointed. “Aren’t you going to offer an old friend some?”

This time, he doesn’t try to hide his humour. “If you had taken your tea when I told you to,” he says, wry, “you would have noticed that I’d dosed it with enough stimulants to keep you awake for the next day.”

Minerva stares at him for a long, murderous moment. Then, with a grimace, she picks up her mug, still steaming gently, and tosses it back in one long gulp.

“I,” she declares, “am going to kill you for not telling me this earlier.”

Well. Merlin tamps down a snort. His potions take a while to kick in, and he doesn’t trust Minerva’s self-restraint, frayed as it is from the late hour, to keep her from strangling him if he shows any more amusement at her sleep-ridden irritability.

“You still haven’t told me what you woke me up for,” he prompts, and watches with a faint sense of alarm when Minerva stiffens, gravity and something else slipping back into her expression as if they’d never left. The grim expression on her face is far too reminiscent of the war for Merlin’s liking, and he’s about to break the silence to ask when—

“There was a Death Eater demonstration at the Quidditch World Cup late last night,” Minerva says, abrupt. Her eyes slide up to Merlin at his stuttered inhale, and she smiles thinly. “Albus is putting whoever’s left of the Order on stand-by, in case this is just one step in their plan. We can’t afford to be caught off-guard.”

 _Not like before_ , she doesn’t say. But they both hear it, and the weight of the words is a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach.

Merlin rubs a hand over his face and breathes out, steady, then looks up. “I need whiskey for this,” he says, but doesn’t move. “What did they do?”

Minerva’s lips twist into a moue of displeasure. “All their favourite tricks,” she says, with a disdain that he hasn’t heard since the war, then hesitates. It’s a beat too long, which—coming from someone who’s been nothing less than poised and certain throughout their acquaintance, that’s enough to put Merlin on edge. “One of them cast the Dark Mark, towards the end.”

Something cold slithers down his spine. It’s been years since he’s seen that mark, but even now, the mention of it is enough to strike a chord of long-buried alarm and horror in him, and Merlin finds himself cataloguing seven different escape routes before he can rein his instincts in.

“Merlin,” Minerva says sharply, a thread of concern undercutting the steel in her voice.

He shakes his head, lets a reassuring smile touch his lips as he lifts a finger to stop her. “Fatigue,” he says, apology and excuse wrapped into one word. “I’m fine.”

She arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t press the issue further. “You’d better hope so, because what I have in mind depends on it.”

That’s enough to make him stiffen, narrowing his eyes at Minerva. The years may have mellowed her, but they don’t change the fact that the first time he met her, it was in the middle of a battle she’d orchestrated to buy her allies time to evacuate the civilians.

In light of that, he could perhaps be forgiven for being wary of any of her plans.

But—if he says as much to her, he'd be signing his own death warrant. Merlin is more than aware of Minerva's ability to smile in someone’s face only to impale them not five seconds later, and he has no desire to test her propensity for mercy. Should he truly wish to test his immortality yet again, there are far easier ways that don’t involve provoking one of the most formidable fighters he’s ever met.

So he picks up his mug and takes another sip of his tea. “You are aware,” he says, aiming for neutral but landing somewhere near resignation instead, “that I know just how incredibly reckless your plans can be.”

The set of her jaw is all bone-deep stubbornness and daring, as self-assured as the lioness she’s modelled herself after. “Name one plan of mine that’s failed.”

Merlin’s mug clunks loudly on the tabletop when he sets it down. “Forgive me for not also mentioning that you have the devil’s luck,” he says flatly.

” _Gryffindor’s_ luck," Minerva corrects, knowing, and meets Merlin’s glare with an amused look. “Merlin, please. Have some faith.”

“That’s exactly what you said to me before we had to fight off a whole swarm of Death Eaters with no back-up,” Merlin mutters.

He doesn’t appreciate the way Minerva’s trying not to laugh at him. “Considering that we were the only survivors of that fight,” she says, faint satisfaction lurking at the corner of her smile, “I can assure you that we won’t have to do that again.”

“How wonderful,” Merlin says, dry. “Just let me get my schedule so I can pencil in another massacre for—oh, wait.”

Minerva rolls her eyes at him. “You’re so dramatic. Mulciber almost killed you with his curse, it was only fair that I cursed him too.”

“Yeah, him and _half_ the battlefield.”

“Only because you’d incapacitated the other half,” she reminds him. Her arch tone isn’t enough to hide the tremors in her hand, where some bastard had concentrated a Cruciatus on her wrist. “So?”

Merlin looks at her, silent, then sighs. “It’s not like I would’ve said no.”

Her smile is just shy of relief, and she slides an envelope across the table to him. With an inkling of where this is headed, Merlin picks it up, flicking the edge of the thick yellowish parchment, and turns it over.

As expected, an exact replica of the purple wax seal he’d helped create is stamped across the back.

He looks up and raises an unimpressed brow at Minerva. “The last time I pretended to be a student at Hogwarts,” he says, deliberately bland, “I caused a scandal that’s still being talked about almost a thousand years later.”

The corner of her mouth ticks up, ruining her attempt at giving him a disapproving look. “Yes, clearly we’ll need to set a few ground rules.”

Merlin grimaces. “You do realise that I’m older than you,” he says, more to see Minerva’s reaction than because he thinks it’ll work.

Her eyes crinkle in the way he knows means she wants to laugh at him. “Not to anyone who doesn’t know what a fossil you are.”

“I resent that description.”

Humour flashes in Minerva’s eyes, a bright spark of sly laughter, before she tamps it down and tries for her most innocent look. It’s never worked, and he doesn’t know why she even bothers anymore, not when she’s so much better at doing the scolding that she’d gone and become a teacher so she had a reason to do it. “Really, Merlin. You know it’s true.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he grumbles. He looks down at the letter, amusement fading into something more subdued. “You know why I’ve been staying away from Hogwarts.”

Maybe that makes him a coward, but he’s willing to accept that if it means he doesn’t yet have to face the people he failed and lied to in every way possible. And at least he’s stopped running, forced himself to return to the peripherals of the land he was meant to protect, but—

A thousand years of grief and isolation was far from enough for him to be able to face up to the disaster that started before he was born and ended with Camlann, with the blood and ashes of everyone he’d ever loved on his hands. He’s not ready to face the resurrected versions of his oldest friends, who’ve somehow managed to be reborn with the very thing that would’ve seen most of them dead, had they still been living in Uther’s Camelot.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready.

Minerva stills, then sets her mug, already halfway to her mouth, down with a soft clink. “I know you’ve been avoiding them, yes,” she acknowledges. Leaning back, she spins her wand across her fingertips, steady gaze pinned on him. “I also know that you’ve missed them—”

“Don’t.” His voice comes out raw and choked, like it clawed its way up his throat and didn’t know what to do after that. He looks away, not wanting Minerva to see the tears he’s struggling to hold back, and clears his throat. “Please, just—don’t.”

The weight of her gaze on him, considering, is a heavy thing, and it should burn to know just how easily Minerva can read him, but she’s the closest friend he’s had in over a century, and he can’t bring himself to care about that when she knows him well enough to not press him for more right now. “We’re coming back to this,” she warns, and, well. Merlin had expected that. “But I need you to go undercover at Hogwarts is because they’ve decided to start up the Triwizard Tournament again.”

Merlin gives him a blank stare, but the tension eases out of his shoulders. “I had heard about that, yes,” he says, not sure how that’s relevant. “Why?”

“I want you to be the Hogwarts champion.”

Of all the things he thought Minerva would say when he let her in, that had not been one of them. “You can’t be serious,” he says, incredulous. “Why the bloody hell would you want that? And don’t tell me it’s because of school pride, I know your students are more than capable of winning.”

For the first time since she’d stormed in here, there’s a slight hint of fear on Minerva’s face. “The past three years have been dreadful,” she says quietly. “And now there’s a Death Eater attack for the first time in over a decade, and someone’s decided to reinstate a tournament discontinued for its horrific death toll? We’ve grown complacent since the war’s ended, but I’m not enough of a fool to believe there isn’t a correlation between the two.”

Minerva’s instincts have saved the both of them far too many times for Merlin to ignore them now, but even without them, she isn’t wrong. Something about this whole mess seems deliberate, and, from what he remembers of the war, right up Voldemort’s alley. “But why do you want me to be the Hogwarts champion?”

She hesitates, folding her hands in front of her like she isn’t sure what his reaction will be. “I don’t want a student caught up in this,” she admits, head slanted down so she doesn’t have to look at him. “At least I know you can handle yourself in a battle, when it comes down to it, but most of them have never known war, and I refuse to subject the three with actual experience to any more.”

That’s enough to make Merlin grimace. Minerva might keep it together while she’s still in school, but he’s been through many a drunken rant about her biggest headache, after the Weasley twins. He knows more than most about their hare-brained escapades. “Yeah,” he agrees. “They doesn’t need that.”

And she does have a point. He had been one of the loudest proponents of the Tournament’s discontinuation; it’d horrified him that ill-prepared children were throwing themselves into danger with little understanding of the consequences, only to wind up dead. In fact, the only reason he hadn’t protested its revival now is because of the strict age limit set in place.

But if Minerva’s right, and Voldemort is attempting to manipulate the Tournament to his own advantage, even the most experienced student wouldn’t stand a chance against him.

“Damn it all to hell,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, and shoots Minerva a glare. “Fine, but I want some recompense.”

“I’ll get you that expensive winterberry mead you pretend not to like,” Minerva says promptly. Hesitates, head tilting, and offers, “I can keep them away from you too, if you’d like.”

He’s silent for a moment. “No.” He can feel blood where his nails are biting into his palms, but he manages a reassuring smile. “It’d be unrealistic to hope that I can avoid them for the entire year.”

Minerva doesn’t look convinced. “It wouldn’t be that hard,” she argues. “I’m Deputy Headmistress, and the castle would do anything you ask. It could work.”

“And what do you plan on telling the staff when they notice you favouring a student?” Merlin counters. “Besides, unless you’ve somehow changed your mind, you never thought running away from the problem would solve it.”

Her eyes narrow and she sits forward, pinning him in place with an unwavering stare. “You are my best friend,” she says, a hint of the steel that’s made her such a good teacher threaded through her voice. “I’ll do everything in my power to help you, even if I don’t agree with your methods.” Then there’s a quicksilver flash of a smile, wry and knowing. “ _And_ I know insisting on my way will just worsen the situation.”

That startles Merlin enough to make him huff out a surprised laugh. “That does sound like me,” he agrees. “Thank the Goddess you’re here to knock some sense into me, huh?”

“It’ll take more than your Goddess to knock some sense into your thick skull,” Minerva mutters, but she looks faintly pleased. “Now, I’ll need details on whatever identity you’ve decided to fabricate this time if I am to pass you off as a student.”

Merlin shrugs. “I’ve been using the alias Ambrose Donahue,” he offers. “You could say that I’m your godson, and now that my parents are dead, you’ve decided to take me in.”

Minerva makes a thoughtful sound. “We might need documentation to prevent suspicion.”

“The fact that I’m overage should head them off,” Merlin dismisses. “I’ll have to be if you want me to participate in the Tournament, anyway, and it’ll be legal for me to make my own living arrangements then.”

“Regardless, it might still be suspicious if I can’t provide proper documentation to prove why you’re living with me.” Minerva tilts her head, thinking. “You filed for emancipation, didn’t you? There’ll be less loopholes if we run with that and make this your official address.”

“Then you can be the godmother who wants me to take my NEWTs so I have more options, since I’ve just gotten out of my medicinal apprenticeship,” Merlin says, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table. “I’ll give you the name of a Healer I’ve been in contact with. They should play along.” If only because Carlin will think it’s a bloody joke.

“Right then.” Minerva gives a sharp nod and stands up, smoothing a hand over her robes. “I’ll have your school supplies sent here, so just spend the rest of the week getting your affairs in order.” She lifts an eyebrow at him. “Anything else?”

Merlin just sighs and reaches up to rub at his temples. Showing such visible aggravation is unbecoming, but they’ve both seen much worse out of the other by now. “ _You_ will be paying for my imminent self-exile to a luxurious beach resort somewhere.”

She barks out a humourless laugh. “As long as I can tag along,” she counters, letting her exhaustion bleed through her facade. “I’ll even pay for the first class treatment.”

The only resort Merlin’s been to was that one in the sixties that’d been drugging its patrons with some experimental hallucinogen. “Have you ever been to a resort before?” he asks, because between the wars and political upheaval he’s absolutely sure that Minerva hasn’t had time to even breathe near one.

“Of course not,” she says, looking affronted that he even has to ask—and, well. She’s not _wrong_. “Which is why we’re taking next summer off and going to the best one I can find.”

“Yes, _please_ ,” Merlin says fervently. “I’m definitely going to need it.” As it is, the thought of having to take part in a death-defying tournament is enough to make him want to reach for a bottle of the strongest firewhiskey he can find, never-mind having to face familiar ghosts he’d thought he’d left behind.

Minerva eyes him, something close to protective concern in her gaze. “My offer still stands,” she reminds him, “if you ever need help dealing with them.”

Merlin lets out a long, slow breath, silencing the small part of himself that desperately wants to accept that offer. “I’ll be fine,” he promises.

It’s not even a lie; he’d long since perfected the art of lying to himself, after all, and that’s close enough to the truth these days.

Even after so many years on the run, Hogwarts recognises him the instant he sets foot on its grounds. The magic he’d placed within the walls thrums in pleased welcome at his presence, and Merlin pulses his own down through the bond, seeking out any structural changes made in the past few years.

The only response is from Salazar’s chamber, where the warding runes they’d placed on the fractured columns are now irreparable. If he wants to use it again, he’ll have to either demolish the whole thing or spend months trying to manipulate the delicate runic web Salazar had insisted on spinning over it, neither of which sound very appealing. The wards had been a pain and a half that took all four of the founders _and_ him to lay without severe magical exhaustion, and he has no idea where to even go about finding someone with even a fraction of the sheer talent those four had between them.

Distracted by the headache that promises to be, he forgets, for a moment, and reaches for the mind of an old friend. The void that used to be Thekla _screams_ back at him, chamber and castle both unbalanced by the loss of their guardian, and he chokes back a cry, wrenching away from the bond, and clenches his eyes shut against the tears that threaten to slide down his face. Her death is a gaping wound that has yet to close in the bones of the castle, and his head spins from how unbalanced just brushing against it feels.

It’s almost enough to make him forget that Thekla’s body is still lying there, completely exposed and vulnerable. He doesn’t want to think about his cowardice, the way he’d chosen to keep running, nor about how furious Salazar would have been.

Granted, that’s more common than he’s willing to admit. A thousand years is a long time to be alive, and Merlin’s always had more regrets than anyone he’s known. He’s learned how to breathe past the pain, how to seem unaffected, but—

It hurts more than Merlin thought it would, being confronted by the evidence of his failures.

That doesn’t stop him from walking up the rest of the way up to the gate, flanked on either side by tall pillars crowned with the winged boars Helga had carved for him. They’re worn now, discoloured from the passage of time, but he can still make out the faint outline of a badger on the underside of one wing. Its sharp eyes watch him, steady and constant as its maker, and he inclines his head to it as he approaches.

He's timed his visit so that the staff are all busy preparing for the Welcoming Feast. It doesn't matter, not really, but the consequences of growing up with a deadly secret are a hard thing to shake, and even here, when magic is the bedrock of this new world, Merlin can’t quite tell himself that his caution is unwarranted.

Still, that caution is the reason he’s escaped unnoticed so far, so it’s hard to move away from the shelter of the gates and into the open castle grounds. Even the assurance of knowing Minerva will bail him out if he’s somehow caught off-guard isn't enough to ease the anxiety coiled in the base of his throat, and Merlin finds himself looking over his shoulder as he makes his way across the grounds, only relaxing when he reaches a small crevice in the wall. With a quick murmur, he runs a hand over it and, bowing his head to hide the flash of gold eyes, slips easily into the opening that reveals itself there.

A light flickers to life in his palm before his boots even hit the ground, revealing weathered stone that surrounds him on all sides. The cavern is small enough that Merlin has to duck his head or risk banging it against the ceiling, but it’s only here that the tension bleeds out of his frame. Hogwarts protects her own with a fierce devotion, even when no one knows they exist, and the thought is reassuring enough that Merlin leans on the wall for a second, shutting his eyes. Breathes in, the air light and cool on his tongue.

He pushes away and starts up the steps tucked in the back corner of the cavern.

It’s a steep, spiralling climb that seems to go on endlessly, lit only by the light in his hand. The steps are cut right into the wall of the cavern, worn down the middle from the years but unblemished everywhere else. Not even Minerva knows of this passage, nor of the many others leading into Hogwarts that can only be accessed by magic older than the castle itself. He is the last person alive who could even hope to open them. Just another marker of Uther’s devastating legacy, just another loss Merlin has to mourn.

The grief would have been choking once, but now he barely registers it, too used to his roiling emotions to take much notice of yet another.

Light ahead marks the end of his passage, and he extinguishes his own, not wanting to draw undue attention. He pulls darkness over himself until he’s nothing more than an misshapen shadow as he approaches the archway leading out into the main castle, and peeks out into the corridor beyond.

Empty, just as Minerva’d promised. Merlin exhales, his sigh not quite relief, and darts out of the archway, past a woven hanging that conceals it, and into the office just down the hall.

Minerva doesn’t bother to look up when he enters, too used to his breaking into places that should be impenetrable. “You know,” she says, “when I asked you to pretend to be a student, I assumed you would’ve taken the train, not barged into my office just before the start-of-term feast.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and throws himself into a chair opposite her. “Maybe I just missed you.” 

Looking up, Minerva arches an unimpressed eyebrow, but he can see her suppressed laughter in the thin press of her lips. “I saw you not six days ago.”

“Six very long days,” Merlin insists. “However did I live, deprived of your illustrious presence?”

She smiles, almost, and plays along. “Rather well, I imagine, if your current antics are any indication.”

A purr rumbles from beneath the desk and a white margay prowls out, winding her way between Merlin’s legs. Aithusa leaps up into his lap and pins him in place with golden-eyed amusement. _Do the two of you do this every time you see each other?_ she asks idly. _Humans are so strange._

He runs a hand down her back, feeling soft fur where there should be scales, and has to hide a smile when she arches into his touch. Aithusa may not be quite as dangerous as in her true form, but her claws can still do quite a bit of damage, and he’d rather laugh at her when she’s not close enough to gut him if he gets on her nerves.

“It was good practice,” Merlin decides to say, exchanging a wry look with Minerva over the top of her head. They’ve far too many wartime habits between the two of them. “Helped us figure out if the other person was real or Polyjuiced.”

Not that anyone even knew of Merlin's existence, let alone were able to get past enough of his defences to get anything of his to use for Polyjuice. But Minerva, with her position as second-in-command of the foremost force against the Death Eaters, was more exposed, and she'd spared no efforts in the code they'd come up with. Whether it was fear for if a Death Eater managed to fool Merlin or a fierce determination to maintain Merlin’s secrecy, he still has no idea, but the motions are ingrained in the both of them now.

Aithusa reaches up to nose at his neck. _A good reason_ , she approves, the vicious gleam in her eye a remainder from her imprisonment by Sarrun. _Always protect your allies._

“Indeed,” he murmurs, hiding a helpless smile in her fur. “Thank you for answering my call, old friend.”

 _I could hardly leave you alone to flounder_ , she scoffs, pushing lightly at him. A wicked gleam flashes in her eyes. _But if you really do insist on making it up to me, you can get me more fish._

Merlin snorts, ruffling her fur. “You’ll get it at the feast, you greedy little thing,” he promises. “I even asked the house elves to make your favourite.”

“ _And_ I just fed you,” Minerva cuts in, arching an eyebrow at Aithusa. “I should think you can wait the half hour before the feast begins.”

She’s met with an unimpressed stare. Aithusa turns her back on Minerva, flicking her tail around her, head at a disdainful slant. _It’s never too early for fish._

Minerva shakes her head, smiling. “You are entirely incorrigible,” she says, finishing off her paperwork with a precise signature. Pushing it away from her, she gets up, rolling her shoulders. Merlin winces at the sound of bones cracking. “Oh, stop that, not everyone can age as miraculously as you.”

“I offered to help!” he protests. “I know plenty of non-magical remedies to help with stiff joints, and even more magical ones besides that. It’s not _my_ fault you didn’t take me up on any.”

“The only way you could help would be by helping me with my work,” she says dismissively. “I doubt any remedy you have is strong enough to counter the aches of being trapped behind a desk all day.”

Merlin eyes her, then sighs. “You’re going to make me your teaching assistant, aren’t you.”

She smiles, unruffled by his glare, and sweeps out from behind her desk. “Wonderful, I see you’re as quick on the uptake as ever.”

Aithusa bares her teeth, purring, and Merlin doesn’t have to read her mind to know she’s laughing at him. “Shut it, you,” he grumbles. “I don’t want to hear anything unless it’s an agreement to help me set fire to anything I have to mark.”

“I can hear you, and you won’t be setting anything on fire this year,” Minerva calls.

“More’s the pity.”

 _Spoilsport_ , Aithusa says almost at the same time.

“No fire,” Minerva repeats, casting both of them an exasperated glare, then turns back to the wall she’s standing in front of. With a quick twist, an unlit wall sconce is replaced by a mounted coat rack, from which she draws two sets of robes. She tosses the plain black one at him and slips on the tartan set. “Do me a favour and get sorted into Slytherin,” she says, smoothing down her robes. “I have a bet to win with Severus.”

He tilts his head. “Did he bet on me being in Gryffindor because you told him I’m your godson?” At her nod, Merlin laughs, shaking his head. “All right, but only if you split your winnings.”

Minerva hums. “That’s fair,” she says, adjusting her hat. “I just wanted to see Severus’s face when he has to pay me another fifty galleons.”

Merlin grins, so terribly amused despite himself. “Maiden’s mercy, Minerva, he’s going to go bankrupt.”

“Then he should learn to place smarter bets.” Her gaze flicks over to the paperweight on her desk, now flickering a bright red instead of the steady blue glow it’s been emitting, then back to him. “The students are here now.”

The reminder of their last meeting hangs over their heads. His answer is far from forgotten, but Minerva is just as aware as he is that this is his last chance to take her up on it, and far less likely to let him ignore it. Even Aithusa is still and quiet on his lap, leaving the decision up to him.

For a moment, Merlin is almost tempted to take it. Avert the devastation sure to follow if he continues on his current path, either for himself or for everyone he’s about to reunite with, who’ve no doubt thought him lost long before this. And he trusts that Minerva will do everything she can to keep her promises, especially to him, so there’s no question that it will be done, but—

He’d only agreed to come because he was tired of running. Tired of his cowardice, tired of the mistakes he keeps making, tired of _hiding_. If he takes her offer now, then it’ll just be more of the same thing, and he shouldn’t have come here at all, to the only place in the world where he’s never had to hide any part of himself.

So he just gives Minerva a small smile, resolute, and shakes his head slightly. He’ll stand by his choice; even if he’s regretting it more and more every passing second, the fact that it was the best available option left to him still stands. Trying to overturn it at the last minute will only create more trouble for Minerva, and he refuses to burden her with the consequences of his own mistakes.

The look on her face is almost proud, and she brushes a hand across the back of his neck as she passes. He leans into it, grateful for the comforting gesture, and steels himself. With any luck, he can push off the explosive reunion until the weekend, where there’ll be less potential casualties of any fall-out that might occur, but he’s not holding out hope. It’ll be a bloody miracle if they wait to confront him tomorrow, instead of making a scene during tonight’s feast.

Aithusa jumps off Merlin’s lap and heads for the door, disrupting the tension in the room. _Let’s go_ , she demands, looking over her shoulder. _The sooner we get down there, the sooner I can have my fish._

Merlin laughs, startled, and gets up. “Abandoned by my own familiar for the irresistible temptation of fish,” he says. “How devastating.”

A white head pokes out from behind the door, an all-too-familiar glare on her face. _If you don’t hurry, I’m going to do more than just abandon you._

Minerva coughs into her hand, hiding a smile. “You’ll have to wait a while longer for that, I’m afraid,” she says, eyes glimmering with mischief. “Merlin’s an old man, he can’t move that fast.”

He only sighs, far too used to her goading. “You do realise my physical body is all of seventeen right now.”

“And yet you’re still older than me.”

“How rude. Didn’t your mother ever teach you to respect your elders?”

She shrugs, still holding the door open. “My mother raised me to _acknowledge_ my elders, dear Merlin. She mentioned nothing of respect.”

“Convenient loophole you’ve got there.”

“Indeed.” When he still doesn’t make a move towards the door, she huffs and motions him forward impatiently. “Come _on_ , old man, it’s age before beauty, haven’t you heard?”

“Oh, sod off, Minerva.”

Her laugh follows him out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [tumblr](https://ruiconteur.tumblr.com) or [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ruiconteur/)!


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